


cave in

by Lysaanderr



Category: TwoSet, Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF, twoset violin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysaanderr/pseuds/Lysaanderr
Summary: A cave in can be slow and quiet, with the tiniest pebbles of the walls crumbling into the palms of your hands.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 18
Kudos: 81





	cave in

They’ve shared the story of how they met so many times that he barely has to think about it before he starts in on it. The words are familiar on his tongue and the images reel by in his mind in a fast-forward. From the corner of his eye, Brett is nodding amicably, not really listening – it’s an old story after all. The evening light is coming through the blinds and it falls across Brett’s face, his chest, and their arms side-by-side on the desk in front of the laptop. He stops, mid-sentence.

It takes a beat before Brett notices and raises an eyebrow. Brett picks up where he left off, a hand lifting in a whimsical gesture. It’s his turn to nod along and he runs his tongue over his suddenly-dry lips. It’s an old story, that’s what they always say, but the images in his mind flicker and slow when Brett takes over – Brett’s telling the story from his point of view now and he wonders what it was like. They say it’s the same thing but it never is, is it?

~~~~~

He remembers walking into the classroom, grumpy and frustrated. He doesn’t even look at the kid next to him – he doesn’t even want to be here and it’s a waste of time. His grades were only bad because he didn’t care. What did math matter? He could do whatever tests they threw at him if he wanted but that was the point. He didn’t want to.

He doodles on his page as the teacher drones on. The kid next to him yawns and he sneaks a look. The other kid has a scruffy look – his glasses are a little crooked and his eyes seem too big behind them. They make eye contact and nod to each other in _this-sucks_ solidarity.

During break, he scrapes his chair over and introduces himself. The other boy does likewise – his name is Brett. They chat about, what it was now, he can’t remember. There is a solemnness in the other boy; Brett’s friendly enough but his smile never reaches his eyes. He glances down at the other boy’s desk. The trial test they did at the beginning of class is pinned under Brett’s elbow and Brett follows his gaze and grimaces. He hurriedly looks away, pretending not to see his failure; it’s an Asian thing, maybe. Brett does need these extra math lessons.

The rest of the class drags on for forever and when it’s finally done, he waves at Brett before he darts off. He takes a single look back just as the classroom door is swinging shut behind him – Brett is still seated, staring down at his desk, head bowed and unmoving.

The next day is a miracle – he walks in and there, Brett, meeting his eyes and raising a hand. He’s elated that there’s a familiar face among all these strangers. All these other teenagers, entirely strange entities on a different level of brooding. They don’t get to talk much after rehearsal starts but, once, he tilts his head to look over. The other boy notices.

He smiles and Brett smiles back. This time, the smile does reach his eyes and the music is beautiful.

~~~~~

He nods absent-mindedly as Brett finishes reciting the story of how they met like it’s something he’s reading off a page. He shakes his head out of the clouds, quirks a reassuring smile at the other man. They get through the rest of filming and he’s somewhat relieved when the camera clicks off. Tension eases from the back of his neck and he huffs, flopping back onto the couch and flinging an arm over his eyes. He listens to Brett clearing up, the rattle of the camera stand, the tap of the mouse as Brett checks over the files.

Brett’s phone rings and they both jump. He peeks from beneath his arm but Brett’s already dropping the now-silent phone by the laptop and ignoring it. Something inside him catches. His own phone pings a moment later. It’s on the desk by Brett and he squeezes his eyes shut quickly, just in case Brett sees him peeking. He doesn’t know if Brett looks at the phone, or if Brett even looks at him. The steady quiet clack of the laptop keys and the click-click of the mouse continue. He finds that he’s holding his breath and his eyes are hot.

Later that night, in bed, he rolls over and grabs his phone. He taps the lock screen and stares at the notification for three breaths before opening the message.

_is brett with you? tell him 2 call me_

His hands shakes and he nearly laughs when he realizes his damn eyes are watering again. He just can’t seem to stop with the waterworks tonight, huh? He stretches out and looks up at the ceiling. He can hear the tinny sound of Brett practicing in the sound-proofed room down the hall. He lifts the phone to his face, types, and hits send.

_sorry auntie yang_

He’s not sure what he’s responding to and what he’s apologizing for. Something is clawing its way out his throat and he cups his hands over his mouth. Down the hall comes the far away sound of Tchaikovsky; he listens and the music becomes a pair of hands reaching out, to a lover and for a lover, in the past and throughout time.

~~~~~

It’s a sunny day out and he’s sprawled out on the grass. Kids are running around and shrieking, and someone shouts from the soccer field – a quick, short F flat bark. A perfect December summer day. He shields his eyes when he looks up at the startling blue sky and admires the fluffy clouds. A breeze ruffles his bangs and cools the faint sheen of sweat that had beaded on the tip of his nose. Brett’s lying next to him on the ground, on his belly, squinting down at his phone and tilting the shadow his own head over his screen to keep the sun’s glare off. Brett’s propped up on his left elbow and the fingers of his right hand lie half-curled, skyward.

He doesn’t think – he puts his left hand over Brett’s right and their fingers curl loosely, gently, naturally together. He stares down at their twined hands, closes his eyes, and opens them again, and their hands are still fitted together. He looks at Brett.

The other man had not moved a single muscle. His head is still bent forward, his eyes still focused his phone. Brett’s face is still calm, emotionless, intentionally so. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed anything but he knows the tense line of Brett’s jaw, sees the slight clench, can imagine the grind of teeth. He breathes and Brett breathes and time narrows into this single thin line of blue sky and green grass and something sweet and pulsing in his chest.

“Hey, guys!” A voice carries over the park.

He looks away from Brett, toward the voice, narrowing his eyes against the bright light. A lithe figure is moving toward them, waving and smiling, a flute case swinging from her hand. He grins and lifts his left hand to wave. Then he frowns because wasn’t he holding onto something? He closes his empty fist and then looks at Brett. The other man is holding his phone to his face with both hands, concentrating intently on something on the screen. He shrugs and stands in time to swing her up in his arms. It’s a perfect December summer day.

~~~~~

It’s moments like this - where Brett is doubled over, wheezing, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes deepening – and he’s laughing along and his sides are hurting and tears are heating up just beneath his eyelids. Sure, it’s funny, they’re a riot, the both of them when they’re together, but he’s laughing so hard and it’s hard to catch his breath because Brett’s laughing and the sound of it is clear and sharp and sweet. He wants to joke about his perfect pitch, recite the notes Brett laughs in but he doesn’t say anything. These notes that jump and sing in his chest, and he curls around them, cradles them close, and laughs and laughs.

~~~~~

He doesn’t know why it happened. He knows why it happened. But he doesn’t, really. But does he?

It had just rained and the pavement is slick, puddles glowing silver in the streetlights. He’s walking down the road and he knows he’s bawling out loud like a kid, and people are skirting around him on the sidewalk from second-hand embarrassment. Whatever, whatever.

He gets to a familiar street and stops in front of a familiar house. The light is on in the living room and shadows move behind the drawn red curtains. He doesn’t bother going up to the door. He stands in the road for a while and listens to the distant hum of cars, the buzz of the dying streetlight one house down, the heavy thump of his own heart, his own staccato breath.

“The fuck?”

He looks up and Brett is hissing at him from the upstairs window. He doesn’t move and soon enough, Brett’s coming out the front, yelling something over his shoulder, and locking the door behind him. Brett nudges him in the side, nods at the parked car in the driveway, car keys dangling from a raised hand.

They drive for a while. Brett stops to get them both bubble tea and he holds them as Brett drives, the cold numbing his fingers. The condensation on the sides of the plastic cups make them difficult to hold, and he finds them slipping so he rests them on his thighs. The wet forms rings on his jeans. They go up to Kangaroo Point Cliffs, and Brett parks, then holds a hand out for his bubble tea. He passes him one and lifts the other to his lips. It’s hard to drink because he’s still crying and gasping and he has to stop between sips in case he chokes.

He thinks about the way she tilts her head when she plays the flute, the way her hair falls so smoothly down over one shoulder. He takes a sip of bubble tea, and finds another sob waiting. He feels like he’s in some evening Asian TV sitcom where he’s the grim dad who’s preoccupied with work and neglects his family. He knows he had been busy – they just did a world tour and it’s always difficult to be apart – but she did join them for some parts of it and, and, and he knows that there will always be another slew of excuses ready and waiting but it’s too late. He takes another gulp of bubble tea but the sting of his own tears overpowers the sweetness of the drink and he has to lower the cup and cover his eyes with a hand because the lights from the city below are getting too bright and he just can’t stop crying.

He scrubs at his face and turns; everything is a blur and Brett’s profile is shadowed in the dark of the car. He sniffles and Brett looks at him, steadily and calmly and there’s no expression on his face. No expression anyone else would notice anyway.

He tries to catch his breath and opens his mouth but he doesn’t know what to say. What did he want to say? What did he want Brett to say? Another gulp and then the straw is bubbling noisily at the bottom of the cup, rattling the ice. Liquid courage.

Brett is still looking at him, his bubble tea untouched.

He finds that his eyes are welling up again, and his face is probably gross and blotchy. He leans forward, leans toward Brett, and he learns that their tears taste the same.


End file.
